You Already Know
by A Killer Joke
Summary: Malik was born an Assassin; it is his nature to fight to the very last. - Kinkmeme fill, Malik death!fic. Warnings for character death, violence, etc.


_a/n_: Filled for a prompt on the kinkmeme not that long ago. I thought I uploaded it here, but apparently not.  
Sorry to those of you who've seen this before! I don't mean to spam you up with my retarded writing, I'm just anal about saving things on sites since my computer is so unreliable. /sob****

HEY. WARNING. Character death, violence, all that lovely stuff here. Please don't read it if that sorta thing isn't your cup of tea, yeah?

* * *

Malik is surrounded.

White armor, crimson crosses, familiar in a way that no Assassin could ever mistake, chain mail and metal helmets flecked by nicks and dents along with other signs of hard battles won. All of their faces are hidden by helms, but Malik knows that behind the thin slits in the red-painted steel each well-trained pair of eyes is narrowed and sharp, watching, calculating, making note of every possible weak spot that they can use to their advantage.

Of which Malik, admittedly, has many.

For a time, there is no movement from either party. The Templar soldiers simply stare at the lone Assassin, perhaps thinking him insane and suicidal. Malik wonders, for a moment, how long they will continue hesitating - he is but one man, and they outnumber him by over a dozen. In an unexpected attack during the middle of the night, the Templars had rushed past the guards of their camp and killed anyone else who crossed their path with ruthless speed and precision, and yet now they halt at the sight of a single one-armed man in their way. This perplexed reaction is exactly what Malik was hoping for.

The odds are not the slightest bit in his favor, Malik knows this, but he will not call for recruits - rather, it was he that sent them away, ordering that they abandon the camp and regroup so as to flank the remaining Templars and take them by surprise. The flaw in this quickly-devised plan was that they needed someone to provide a crucial distraction; however, that unlucky person would have no chance of survival. Malik could not knowingly send one of his men to certain death.

He picks the obvious choice, the logical choice; if he dies, he knows it will be for the greater good of his fellow Assassins.

The decision is not made out of a sense of pride, nor any other petty, vain emotion. Indeed, Malik has no time to deal with any emotions, not right now.

The calm of the storm breaks. One impatient soldier shifts away from the group, steps forward with sword drawn, and the battle begins.

Malik fights, as he always does, with tooth and nail, blade and strength, using agility to his full advantage. The first to attempt to strike meets a swift demise - a quick side-step around, dodging the clumsily wide swing of the Templar's sword aimed for his unguarded left side, and Malik's favored curved dagger lodges just at the exposed base of his skull, steel severing spine with vicious ease before he pulls the blade out harshly.

Blood sprays and spatters onto Malik's clothes, the first stain of many more to come. Before the soldier's body even has time to hit the ground, the rest of the swarm is already moving in for the kill.

It is obvious that they don't consider him much of a threat, handicapped by his missing limb, but Malik has long since learned how to use this false notion to his benefit. They don't expect him to move so fast, impeccably balanced, dodging and ducking and placing hits with quick, deadly accuracy wherever he can.

He takes another Templar down, drawing a vibrant crimson slash across one's throat with an upward sweep of his blade as he twists around. To his left, there is immediately another to replace the fallen soldier, and as he pulls his arms back to swing a nasty-looking mace at Malik's skull, the Assassin ducks, using his weight to drop to the ground. He feels the head of the mace whisk through the air just above him, nearly clipping his hair, and he uses the moment to strike out with his foot, the ankle of his boot connecting solidly with the side of the Templar's unarmored knee, kicking his leg out from underneath him and sending him off balance, tumbling sideways gracelessly. Malik never lets an opportunity slip by, and he stabs through the Templar's thin chestplate with unbridled force, his blade finding the heart in trained ease.

The dagger is now stuck in the Templar's armor, though, and Malik doesn't have the time to yank it out. He has to improvise, altering his strategy in a split-second decision. While normally not ideal for use in fighting situations such as this, Malik's only chance lies in speed, so he reaches for the throwing knives on his belt, plucking out two. He has five - they need to last, and so he can't afford for his aim to be anything but absolutely precise.

Malik holds his breath as he throws the knives, sending the two thin blades whistling through the short distance between him and the closest Templar, one knife bouncing uselessly against an armor-clad shoulder with a dull [i]thunk[/i] as the soldier tries to dodge, but the other knife strikes home, burying in one of the small eye-slits of the battered metal helmet. The man stumbles, tripping over his own feet as he throws his broadsword down to yowl and clutch at his face before lurching forward, unconscious by the time he hits the ground.

With a good half-dozen men still left, Malik makes a desperate dive for the dropped broadsword, his fingers wrapping around the hilt in a white-knuckled grip as he raises the sword in front of himself in a defensive stance. The remaining Templars advance and circle Malik like a hungry pack of lions, jeering and heckling him in foreign languages he cannot be bothered to understand. Sword held aloft steadily, he watches, waiting for one of them to make a move.

It doesn't take long, as it turns out. The Templars all approach him at once, each intending to shed as much of Malik's blood as possible.

The next few moments pass in a frenzied blur of parrying, dodging, twisting and rolling out of harm's reach, caught up in the precarious dance of battle. Against all odds, Malik somehow manages to take down two other Templars, countering and turning their own attacks against them while sustaining only minimal damage himself, a few shallow cuts and bruises scattered here or there.

He's taking a wary step back from the last three when two of them suddenly break away from the group, turning tail and running back the way they originally came in. Malik curses under his breath as they flee - if they ran into any other Assassins and killed or injured them in their haste to get away, Malik's efforts wouldn't have been entirely successful after all.

But his thoughts are distracted from any possible feelings of guilt or unease when the remaining Templar shouts angrily at his former comrades, pulling his helmet off his head in frustration. "_Brûler en enfer, damné inutile lâches!_" he snarls viciously, throwing the helmet at their quickly disappearing backs as they escape. It clatters to the earth harmlessly, rolling off into some unseen area, and the Templar spits on the ground before turning back to face Malik slowly. His slate blue eyes pin the Assassin under an ice cold stare, but Malik doesn't react in the slightest, meeting him with his own dark-eyed narrow glare. One side of the Templar's mouth twitches up in a brief smirk, and he takes a step closer, unsheathing his sword.

"It is just you and I now, Assassin," he says, his heavy accent twisting the words into something thick and guttural, though still understandable.

"So it would seem," Malik replies with disinterest as the two of them start circling each other cautiously like wolves, his narrowed eyes never drifting away from tracking his opponent's every movement, waiting for the right moment to strike.

"I will enjoy putting you down for your own good, _infirme bâtard_," the Templar mocks with an ugly, arrogant sneer, and then lunges forward without warning. When their swords clash together with a metallic screech, the impact is so strong that Malik swears he can feel it rattle straight through his bones. This Templar is no burly giant, more average in build than anything else, but he has insane, brute strength on his side, Malik is forced to admit.

He manages to push the Templar a few steps back after shoving him roughly, but for the first time since he'd decided to be the one to distract the Templars for as long as possible, Malik begins to feel the creeping icy fingers of fear clutch at his heart for just a moment. He shoves the feeling to the back of his mind, since _now is not the time_, and he attempts to steel his resolve by reminding himself that there is no reason to be afraid. Nothing is true; everything is permitted.

Malik casts aside his worries, because truly, there is no going back now, no matter how much he might wish otherwise. All he can do is fight back, and he does so; he raises his sword, mouth twisted by an angry scowl, and rushes toward his enemy.

He puts a determined amount of strength behind the slash, bringing the blade down as hard as he can and aiming to strike the Templar's arm in an attempt to even out the playing field. Of course, the well-trained soldier meets the straightforward attack and blocks it easily, but Malik recovers quickly, coming in hard with a whirlwind of strikes, keeping the Templar too occupied with parrying and leaving no time for him to take advantage of any of Malik's openings.

The Templar, his patience for this one-sided attack obviously running thin, snarls something unrecognizable and pushes his sword against a diagonal swipe with a little too much strength, separating their weapons while also forcing himself to take a few steps back lest he lose balance.

Both of them have a moment to catch their breath, never letting their guard down as they pace around each other warily.

It is the Templar's turn to take the offensive. He dives in aggressively, raising his sword above his head in a two-handed grip, giving Malik no choice but to awkwardly roll out of dodge at the last second to avoid the strike. The steel bites into the earth where he'd been standing just moments ago, and he hastily scrambles to regain his footing as the Templar pulls his weapon away from the dirt. Malik has little time to react before his opponent is attacking again, this time with a bold thrust toward his throat. He parries it swiftly, redirecting the sword harmlessly over his right shoulder.

He sees the fist a fraction of a second too late, coming in through his open left flank. The Templar's gauntleted knuckles land against his jaw with a jarring force, causing his clenched molars to creak ominously. Malik's footing is disrupted and he stumbles, boots scuffing against the dirt before his balance is lost and he and falls back inelegantly, a small cloud of dust puffing up around the Assassin in his wake.

Annoyed at himself for falling for the cheap trick, Malik growls in frustration and tries to push himself back up as quickly as he can, but the Templar is already on him again, fast and deadly as an angry viper. The cold tip of steel presses against the hollow of his throat, and Malik freezes, not even daring to breathe as his enemy grins down the length of his sword at him, feral and spiteful.

"Not so quick now, hmm?" the other man mocks with morbid amusement, laughing when Malik narrows his eyes in a dark, angry glare. "Still you look so insolent, even with a blade at your neck! Here, let me teach you a lesson on humility..."

The Templar shifts, keeping the tip of the sword poised over Malik's throat as he steps around his prone form. A heavy boot stomps on the Assassin's outstretched wrist, and Malik bites back a yell of pain as the sharp heel presses bruises into bones and grinds his skin against the gravel. The pressure is lifted away only to kick the broadsword out of Malik's grip, sending it skidding a few feet away.

Without that weapon, Malik is left at a serious disadvantage, but his mind does not linger on the low odds of success. Instead he makes use of his now freed arm, reaching for the end of the Templar's blade and recklessly pushing it away from his throat with the heel of his palm. The edge slices into his skin like butter, but he is blind to the pain, and the small sacrifice gives Malik the few inches needed to roll to the side, using the momentum to spring to his feet.

"_Morceau de merde_-" The Templar lets out an irritated curse as he twists around to face him, and Malik takes advantage of the moment to spit at his boots, a crimson stain darkening the earth.

His hand is bleeding freely and slicking his fingers, a dull ache is beginning to settle in his jaw, and his main means of defense lay out of reach on the ground behind his uninjured enemy - in his current position, the chances of winning this unscathed are laughable at best, and one could even say that continuing to fight is only a pointless way of delaying the inevitable.

However, Malik is nothing but stubborn, pointless as it may very well be.

Three throwing knives, that's all he has left to his name. He curls his fingers around one, careful to keep his bloodied grip from slipping on the thin steel. The Templar scoffs, using his sword to point at Malik's meager arsenal.

"You expect me to fight a cripple armed with children's _darts_?" he asks in disbelief, watching skeptically as Malik positions himself into a guard and begins to step around Templar.

Malik throws the small blade; it whizzes past the Templar's face as he ducks his head with a split second delay, resulting in an ugly, deep line cutting across his cheekbone.

"Indeed, I do," Malik responds dryly, withdrawing another knife and attempting to distract his enemy long enough as they circle to reverse their positions and get to the blade left on the ground.

It doesn't work as well as he'd hoped, though, as the Templar sees through the plan immediately. He advances with a thrust, forcing Malik to dance out of reach, leading to a game of cat-and-mouse with the Assassin ducking away from each swing of the Templar's sword.

It goes on like this for a moment until the Templar feints, moving as if to swipe Malik's feet out from under him and then suddenly he adjusts his grip on the hilt, letting the sword twist in his hand until he was holding it pommel-up. Malik tries to shift away from the attack, but it still ends up clipping his side while he simultaneously tosses his second-to-last knife. It buries in the joint of the shoulder, and the Templar hisses in pain before rushing forward blindly, driving his knee hard into Malik's stomach.

The strength of the blow to his gut forces the wind out of him, and once again Malik finds himself landing with his back to the dirt. He immediately scrambles, pushing up on his elbow and kicking out with his feet in a desperate attempt to find some sort of purchase, but the dirt is too slippery and the Templar wastes no time, stalking closer in a few short strides, and all Malik can do is watch as he raises his arms, sword held high and pointing downward-

There is a sickening _schlunk_ as the steel plunges ruthlessly through Malik's chest, shattering ribs and narrowly missing his spine as it skewers him clean. The tip strikes through to the earth beneath him, successfully pinning the struggling Assassin to the ground. It is with a sudden jarring clarity that Malik realizes he can feel his heart hammering wildly in his chest, can feel the warmth pouring out of him with each frantic beat; he knows his blood must be pooling rapidly on the ground now, darkening the earth and marring his once-white robes a garish crimson. He wonders, briefly, if Kadar had been aware enough to feel this same rising panic when his life bled away in the dreary Solomon's Temple.

With eyes going blurry far too fast, he can just barely see the Templar above him sneer victoriously, muttering something that Malik cannot focus on enough to understand, if it's even in Arabic at all. Malik's fingers have already gone numb, and his bruising wrist is at the very least sprained or fractured, but his hand still does not fumble when he wrenches the one remaining throwing knife free from his belt in a last-ditch effort. The Templar is too blind on his own success and caught up in his boasting to register the Assassin's quick movements, and before he can react, Malik has already lodged the small blade deep in the man's throat. His face twists in agony and he tries to speak, but he can only gurgle incoherently as blood falls from his mouth before slumping forward, smothering the Assassin beneath him.

The weight of the corpse knocks the last breath out of Malik, causing him to cough up the lifeblood already clogging his lungs, and he can sense his thoughts drifting, fading, as he chokes and tries with wild desperation to breathe, just _breathe_. He no longer has the strength to shove the body off of him, but somehow, _somehow_, he has to hold on for just a moment longer. He keeps no foolish hope of making it out of this alive, but Malik was born an Assassin, and he is determined to not let go of his precious few seconds of life so easily. It is his nature to fight to the very last.

And yet, somewhere, beyond all this, he fancies he can distantly hear someone calling his name. If he was the least bit capable of doing so, Malik surely would have laughed. Angels from on high, calling him heavenward in these final moments? He does not believe in any gods, nor such ridiculous inanities as this.

But no, there it is again. Someone is indeed shouting his name, and somewhere in the back of his foggy mind, part of him dimly recognizes the panicked voice.

"Malik! Malik, _where are you!_"

After a moment, he hears footsteps rushing toward where he lies, someone hissing a curse as they drop to their knees next to him. The corpse of the slain Templar is quickly pushed off Malik's body, and the person curses again, this time more violently than before. Hands, ever so lightly and painstakingly careful, touch over him briefly, coming to a stop at the sword pierced through his ribs.

Malik finds that his eyelids are too heavy to lift, but at the sound of something suspiciously close to a choked back sob, he manages to raise his hand, placing it over the trembling ones that hover over his torso as if at a loss for what to do.

A sharp, shaky intake of breath, and then, "Malik, what have they _done_ to you! I should have been here, I am so sorry-"

"S-stop," Malik interrupts, and though his voice is barely an audible wisp and his breathing shallow, the person ceases speaking immediately. "No apologies. This was... my choice, it is not your fault, Altaïr."

"Your choice! Your _stupid_ choice, to knowingly sacrifice yourself in a hopeless battle, standing alone when I would have gladly fought at your side?" Altaïr has always been one to avoid showing much emotion in his words, remaining more monotone or aloof than anything else. Malik has never heard him like this; frantic, angry, uncharacteristically close to breaking. "I thought you were with the group, I had no idea you stayed behind!"

"I did not-" A wet cough interrupts Malik as he tries to speak, and the copper tang of blood on his tongue grows even stronger. "Did not want you to fall with me..."

"If _I_ want to, that is not your decision to make!" Altaïr growls, his grip tightening around Malik's hand in a way that would be painful, had he at all been capable of noticing.

"But you... you are not expendable," Malik explains calmly, as though it should be perfectly obvious. Altaïr's arguments are always so ridiculous to him; it is good to know that some things never change. "I, however, am."

He is unable to suppress the shudder that wracks his spine, sending a fresh jolt of pain shooting through his nerves, and he can do nothing to prevent himself from choking on his own blood. It is too difficult to breath now, and all he can do is gasp in a futile attempt to keep any oxygen in his lungs.

"No, no, no!" Altaïr's hands move to grip his jaw then, smearing crimson fingerprints across his pale skin as he turns Malik's face toward him. "Open your eyes, please, look at me. I'll get help and you'll be fine-"

Something warm and wet lands on his cheek, and even though he can already feel his body succumbing to a bone-deep chill and knows that whatever was left of his strength is fading for good, Malik opens his eyes one last time, fearing that Altaïr must also be injured and bleeding over him.

There is no blood, however. His vision is dark around the edges and everything seems faded, making it impossibly hard to focus on any one thing, but he can still make out the track of tears streaking down the Master Assassin's face.

"Crying- d-don't be so ridiculous," Malik says with some fondness and attempts a smile, though it is ruined by the fact that his teeth are stained red and his skin ashen. Altaïr's expression twists into one that is foreign and pained and he says something, but the sound of his voice is muffled and dull to Malik's ears as his unsteady gaze wanders away distractedly; there is someone standing behind Altaïr, an old familiar gray-hooded silhouette that he hasn't seen for far too many painful years.

"Safety and peace, brother."

In the space of a soft sigh, Malik feels nothing as the world fades out, slipping away into chilly oblivion.


End file.
